LONDON AND BACK
At nine that night the two, as agreed upon, met at Dring in the hotel
stables. There had been no mishaps.
The groom was busy putting the horse into the trap, and, when Jack saw
what a really smart turn-out Acton had engaged, his fears began to
occupy less of his thoughts and the pleasures of a rattling hour's spin
a jolly lot more. Punctually to the minute Jack climbed up beside the
driver, the place of honour, and Acton swung himself up behind; the yard
doors were flung open, and the gig rattled smartly out. The hotel
proprietor had not chanted the praises of his horse in vain. On the
level road it laid itself out to go for all it was worth.
The pleasant music of the jingling harness and the scurrying of the
wheels made as jolly a tune as Jack could wish to hear. There was a
touch of frost in the air, which made the quick motion of the gig bite
shrewdly on his cheeks, and made him button up his overcoat to the chin
and settle his cap well over his ears. Acton threw out jokes, too, from
behind, which made Jack feel no end clever to listen to them, and the
driver now and then restrained his horse's "freshness" with the soothing
mellow whistle which only drivers possess. The farmhouses, hayricks, and
an occasional village, drifted past now to the right, now to the left,
and occasionally they overhauled a leisurely belated cyclist, who at
once began to take an unimportant position in the rear, his lamp growing
less and less down the stretch of long white road.
Soon the houses began to come more frequently, then came the streets
with their long avenues of yellow lights, and within the hour they were
rolling smoothly over the wooden pavements.
"Piccadilly," said Acton. "Drop us at the top of Whitehall, will you?
Then you can take the horse to the mews. Be ready for us outside
Frascati's by twelve. Understand?"
"Yes, sir, at Frascati's by twelve! I know the place." A minute or two
later the two swung off in Trafalgar Square, and the driver rattled away
into the crowd.
Jack was delighted. "Spiffing run, Acton, eh?"
"Glad you liked it, young 'un. Now let us localize the Universal
Sporting Club. I know it's about Covent Garden somewhere." Together they
went up the crowded Strand, Jack enjoying every minute of the bustling
walk to the Garden and imagining that he was a very much daring young
desperado to be so far from his little white bunk at St. Amory's. He
would have been usually fast asleep by this time.
The Universal Sporting Club was not a difficult place to find, and
though all its windows were lighted up, upon its fast shut doors were
two little notices: "This door will be open at 11 p.m. None but members
and friends admitted."
"Well," said Acton, "we've got about twenty minutes before there's any
particular need to begin our watch for Raffles, but some of the members
are hanging round now. The early birds get the best perch for the show.
On the whole, perhaps you'd better prowl about this door now, whilst I
go round the corner and see if I can run our fox to his earth."
"All serene," said Jack. "I'll mark time out here till I see you."
Acton walked round the corner, and Jack perambulated about, peering into
the faces of the idlers to see if he could spot the well-known and
much-detested face of Raffles. He had (of course) no luck.
Five minutes afterwards Acton came back smiling. "Almost first fellow I
ran against was Raffles, and I've given him his instructions. He'll
hedge for me with the bookie within five minutes."
"So you're quite safe now, Acton?" said Jack, beaming.
"Oh, quite," said Acton, laughing. "Now, Jack, you've been no end
brickish, and I'm going to treat you. Ever seen a ballet?"
"No."
"Well, you shall."
A hansom flitted slowly up to them, and Acton hailed it. "In you get,
Jack. Kingdom!" said Acton to the cabby. They glided noiselessly
through the lighted streets, and in a minute or so were before the
"Kingdom Theatre." The two hurried up the steps, and Acton asked an
attendant if the ballet were rung up yet.
"No, sir. Two stalls, sir? Certainly. Twelve and thirteen are vacant."
Jack had never seen a ballet before, and when the gorgeous ballet
"Katrina" slowly passed before his eyes, and he followed the simple
story which was almost interpreted by the lovely music, when every fresh
scene seemed lovelier than all the rest, and fairyland was realized
before his eyes, his face beamed with pleasure.
"This _is_ ripping, Acton. Isn't Katrina lovely? Jove! I'd hunt for
Raffles every blessed night if there was a 'Kingdom' to finish up with!"
His enthusiasm amused Acton.
"It is very pretty, Jack, certainly."
For nearly an hour did Jack sit entranced, and when the orchestra
crashed out the last floods of melody in the _finale_, and when most of
the audience rose to go, he trotted out with Acton in a dream.
"We'll have a little supper at Frascati's, young 'un, and then home."
Frascati's completed the enchantment of Bourne. The beauty of the
supper-room, the glitter of snowy linen, of mirrors, and the inviting
crash of knives, and the clink of glasses, the busy orderliness of the
waiters, the laughter, chatter of the visitors, the scents, the sights
and sounds, fascinated him. Acton ordered a modest little supper, and
when Jack had finally pushed away his plate Acton paid the bill, and
went out to find the driver. He was there, the horse almost waltzing
with impatience to be off. The two swung themselves up, and in another
minute they were whirling along back to St. Amory's.
The St. Amory's clock could be heard striking the half hour after one
when Jack and Acton parted at the corner of Corker's garden.
"Jack," said Acton, "good night! and you need not trouble about the £7.
You've done more for me than that, and I shall not forget it."
Jack, almost weeping with gratitude, said, "Good night, Acton!" in a
fervent whisper, and scuttled over Corker's flower-beds. He pushed up
his window and crawled through, and, seeing that all was as he had left
it after supper, he undressed and jumped into bed, and in a few minutes
slept the sleep of the just.
Acton had managed his re-entrance just as successfully--did he ever
fail?--and the thought of Bourne's hopeless rage, when he should find
out about Jack's escapade, made him sleep the sleep of the happy man. He
was made that way.
[Illustration: HE PUSHED UP HIS WINDOW AND CRAWLED THROUGH.]